


Black Swan

by Lookfar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookfar/pseuds/Lookfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thus began the dance that made up all their middle years together. To be so close to Albus, to be offered such abundant love, was agony. To watch himself repay that kindness with slights, with coldness and deliberate cruelty, was shame. Even Albus’ patient understanding, especially that, felt intrusive and degrading."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Swan

This story, too, is for Delphi.

In hindsight, of course, it had begun sometime in the first weeks of his first year. He had been eager to get to Hogwarts at last, out of the house where his parents’ misery poisoned every meal. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say he hoped for a fresh start -- hope was the precursor to disappointment -- but he had some small expectation of relief, perhaps even peace.

He had not thought to be a leading light of Slytherin either, but in those first weeks he could see that such talents as he did possess -- quick, cold rage; the shrewd ability to grasp multiple possibilities; single-mindedness in revenge and, of course, his cleverness -- were well-regarded enough. He would not charm anyone, but he might threaten and maneuver into a good position and end with the respect he deserved.

He remembered Professor Dumbledore at the Sorting Hat Ceremony, taller then, and straighter, but with no less authority, his hair a pinkish mix of white and auburn. He couldn’t recall if he had noticed anything special there. Certainly Dumbledore had not noticed him in the excitement and hubbub of that first day.

But then -- was it even as early as the next day? -- there was a moment. This moment he remembered forever. He was lounging inside an archway, observing his classmates on their way to the Great Hall, wearing the slit-eyed look he took to be faintly threatening yet unprovocative.

Suddenly Dumbledore was coming down the hall and he hadn’t before realized how tall the man was, how his robes moved around him like a nimbus of power. As he passed, he rounded and looked into Severus’ eyes.

“Severus Snape, is it?”

Severus nodded.

Professor Dumbledore smiled with genuine pleasure. “Good to have you, my boy. Good to have you. Now come have lunch with us.”

Severus had moved his gaze aside instantly, but it was too late. It was as if a minute harpoon had entered and pierced him to the core. Even in years to come, as he knew himself better to his own disappointment, he could not overcome the sense of having been invaded. But had Professor Dumbledore done anything at all? It couldn’t be, and yet, Severus was flooded with the terrible longing to admire and respect.

That was it, then. He stood as the dinning crowd swallowed up the purple robes, deflated and uneasy, his body leaning toward the retreating figure, but so restrained that only he could have discerned it.

Seven years at Hogwarts. He watched Professor Dumbledore. He enlarged his collection of curses and gathered whatever of the Dark Arts he could find. Only one time did he allow Dumbledore access to his well-being, and then his suspicions were confirmed: trust no one. It was a point of bitter pride to him that Dumbledore never suspected any special feeling in Severus toward himself.

Months could pass without Severus himself aware of it. Then a kind word from Dumbledore or a stab of jealousy at a kindness directed elsewhere would bring it out and wrack him with yearning and self-castigation.

The Death Eaters offered a way out, not just from his otherwise limited future, but from that unnamed complex of feeling that disgusted and disturbed him. He had no issue with homosexuality, having discovered by then that he was either perverted or asexual, being driven in his sexual behavior by something other than desire. It was the other -- the other --

And when he came crawling back to beg forgiveness and sanctuary, it was fitting to find himself saturated in it, burning like a soul in Hell under Dumbledore’s understanding gaze. There was expiation to be made. Dumbledore was harsh with him, but even that, because it filled his need, burned.

Working for the Order required greater contact with Dumbledore than he had ever suffered before. He understood this as part of his penance. Of late, though, the headmaster seemed to be softening; he coaxed Severus into small conversations, encouraged him to take care of himself.

Passing in the corridor after lunch, Dumbledore called him to the window.

“Professor Snape, look at the lake. I suppose they are migrating and have stopped for a meal. Is it a mated pair, do you think?” Two swans, white and black, glided on the margin of the water.

“I don’t know about swans,” Severus remarked coldly. In truth, their sentimental beauty made him uneasy. “They’d better stay at the edge if they don’t want to be a merman’s dinner.”

They sat in Dumbledore’s office, as they had increasingly often, the winter moon casting its indifferent light on the sills. Inside, a small fire produced enough warmth for two chairs pulled close.

Normally, Dumbledore gave Severus his assignments and discussed strategy with him. This time Severus demanded more. There must be something more dangerous, more extreme, he might undertake.

“My boy, you are doing all that we ask and risking your life. Be content with that, please.”

Severus leaned forward in his chair. “I might attempt an assassination.”

“You would not survive it.”

“That is of no concern to me.”

“Your attempt would fail and we would lose what value you have for us in future.” Dumbledore leaned toward him as well, and the old hand rested on his. “And it is of concern to me.”

Severus froze.

“Ah.” Dumbledore glanced down, smiled ruefully. Then up again at Severus. “If I may?”

Something crowded at Severus’ throat. He hated to be touched. He had always hated to be touched. He would strike Dumbledore’s hand away. He was in terror that Dumbledore would remove it.

Watching him closely, Dumbledore gently turned Severus’ hand, cupping it in both of his. When he was satisfied with Severus’ tacit permission, he lifted it and pressed a whiskery kiss into his palm.

And that was it. A singing joy ran through Severus’ body as he fell to his knees and offered his face. Finally. Finally.

That was the best night. Of all the nights they were to have together, that first night that consisted only of kisses and wild hope was the best night of Severus’ life. He had never in all his life been so young.

Dumbledore smoothed the hair from his forehead and kissed him there, and on his eyes and his jaw. Severus proffered his lips, but the older man did not take them.

“Open your eyes,” he urged.

It was an effort to open when the last minutes had been a dream of safety. At last, a wary glance toward those bright eyes showed him more safety, more comfort. “Is this what you want, my dear? I will support and protect you to the utmost of my ability, whatever your relationship to me.”

Severus answered by kneeling up with a small sound and pressing his lips to Dumbledore’s. For long moments he found himself floating in a conversation about need and dominance, beauty, longing, refuge. When the soft tongue entered his mouth, Severus shivered all over. He had never been kissed like this. Perhaps he had never been kissed at all.

That was the best night. It was dawn when Dumbledore regretfully sent him to his rooms.

“You must rest and freshen up before breakfast,” he said, stroking Severus’ face. “Come back soon.” That invitation warmed him all the way to the dungeons.

He fought with himself that evening. Surely it was giving too much away to return so soon. He couldn’t be wanted. But he longed to be there in the warmth, to have Albus to himself, to be kissed like that again.

At the door to Albus’ rooms he could barely speak. Pleased and unsurprised, Albus brought him inside and poured him a Firewhisky.

“Come then, darling,” Albus said, making a place for him on the couch. “Sit and tell me your story.”

Severus could only shake his head, too agitated to settle.

Albus understood immediately. “To bed, then? Best not to wait?”

A gasping sigh was his answer. Albus nodded, looking him over tenderly, then took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom.

It was a beautiful old carved bedstead, just a double size. Several odd socks were draped over the footboard, apparently waiting for mates. The quilt and woolen blankets were pulled up roughly, the pillows smoothed into shape. Severus began undressing, whipping through the buttons of his coat until Albus stilled his hands.

“Let me.” The soft, dry hands gentled him like a horse, clasping his own briefly, then stroking his sides before beginning on the buttons. When the coat was open, Albus’ spread fingers carefully compressed Severus’ ribcage. He felt his drumming heart slow.

Severus was by no means inexperienced. He had used sex as barter, blackmail, appeasement and aggression and had taken his spasm of pleasure greedily. Now under Albus’ caressing hands he felt an alarming emptiness where he had always had a motive. Then Albus clasped him and stroked his stiffening cock through his pants and the emptiness expanded until he was dizzyingly hollow, drifting on a cloud of present time.

They lay on the bed. All the kisses were his -- long, lazy wet kisses and nibbling kisses and intense thrusting kisses that stood his cock up like an aching pole. He thought he could go on like this for hours, so strangely suspended, so unlike himself.

All of Albus was his. Like any aroused wizards they let their magic play around them in eddies and vortexes, Severus’ raw power jagged, dark and unpredictable, Albus’soft yellow power swelling and curling under the impeccable control of his wizardry, so much greater than, yet saluting and augmenting, Severus’ own.

Their clothes were dispensed with. Severus felt the familiar frisson of distaste at his pale, skinny body, but so distantly that the last traces evaporated in the sigh of pleasure that gusted over his skin.

“Lovely boy,” Albus murmured, stroking the inside of Severus’ thigh. He rolled Severus’ balls in his hand, releasing the stifled moan in Severus’ throat. A few confident strokes and Severus was arching into Albus’ hand. He was closer to climax than he had expected.

In something of a panic, Severus rolled over. He needed -- he needed to be taken, to be mastered, if this were to be the way for him.

“Are you sure?” was the gentle query. He nodded and raised his arse, breathless. The feeling of Albus’ hands holding his hips, the murmured stiffening spell, and then the probing finger, slick with lubrication, nearly put him over. Now he was somewhere else entirely, rocking backward and sobbing. He heard himself begging.

“Do it, do it,” he said.

A second finger was added. If it had been in him to hold back he would have done, but it was all Albus now, he had no control, no self at all.

Albus pulled him close and fitted to him and oh God the feeling, knowing it was Albus taking him, keeping him, loving him, pushing inside him, filling him. A short careful stroke. Retreating, Albus pressed him gently down, covering him with the length of his body. Severus’ cock lay like an iron bar between his belly and the mattress. Albus bit gently at his neck and the tickling of the long beard against his shoulders brought it back to him again. Albus.

Albus paused and then gave him one long, firm thrust all the way in and that was it. Severus cried out, frotting against the sheet as his climax boiled out of him in long gouts, shaking his body and stopping his breath. He twisted and bucked but Albus held him firm. It went on and on with his gasping cries.

In the darkness that followed, the emptiness that had grown to fill him grew again until he found himself diffuse enough to hold the universe. Everything was inside him and he was inside everything. Strangely, he did not wonder what he was supposed to do. He didn’t owe anything. Also strange was that Albus began to gather him in somehow, pulling together the thin membrane that Severus Snape had become, cherishing each part as he indicated wordlessly how it fit. At last Severus was back together and they lay like spoons under the covers. No words seemed appropriate or necessary.

He understood that he had lost his virginity at last. He would not do it again. He had mated for life and when his mate died he would go on alone.

When the sky was barely light, Severus opened his eyes. In his dream he had been shut in a box, the heavy lid suffocating him. He took a deep breath but the air in the room was thin and overheated. He sat up. He couldn’t sleep here. It was too hot, too small. He needed to move around, to stretch the jumpiness out of his legs. He gathered his clothes and pulled them on with his back to the bed. He knew Albus was watching, but taking the coward’s way, he crept out as if leaving his lover to sleep.

Thus began the dance that made up all their middle years together. To be so close to Albus, to be offered such abundant love, was agony. To watch himself repay that kindness with slights, with coldness and deliberate cruelty, was shame. Even Albus’ patient understanding, especially that, felt intrusive and degrading.

There was no way, nothing Albus could do, to remove the sting; if he could have treated Severus with the same brusque uncaring, if he could have done that -- but he could not. Over and over he welcomed Severus back, compassionately, gladly. Over and over Severus returned to take a portion and tear himself away. Sometimes he hated Albus, just as he had years ago. And when he came back, the bright eyes offered him comfort and safety.

The swans came back too, every year on their migration, and spent a week feeding and resting. Albus always pointed them out, whether Severus was speaking to him or not.

And then, after fifteen years, he saw that something had shifted. It may have been that his tolerance for love had grown by some infinitesimal amount, or perhaps it was only the natural dulling effect of long habit, but their partings were less abrupt and violent, his horror and claustrophobia less compelling. He could never be the lover Albus deserved, but he mastered his worst impulses and took perverse pride in his ability to get away before he did too much damage. After so long he began to hope again, a modest hope for peace within.

To the outer world he was sure he remained as frightening and repellent as ever. But in Albus’ presence he found himself almost, sometimes, like a person.

It was on one of those evenings that Albus told him how their story would end. Lovemaking was not a frequent thing anymore, but not because they loved less. Rather, other things could bring the same feelings of warmth and ease. On this night, they sat once again looking into the fire, Severus with his back against Albus’ knees.

There was a Horcrux. Albus knew the location and in the next year he would take Harry Potter with him to find it. It would involve drinking a poisonous mixture; once that had been done, the horcrux could be destroyed. Albus, too, would die, but he had a plan for making capital from that.

“I won’t do it,” Severus said, hating the way fear raised the pitch of his voice. “Find yourself another murderer. You can’t ask it.” He leapt up and turned his back; contrarily, he wanted to grab the wooden stool and beat Albus to death this very moment.

“You will be protected. It might well put you in a position to end the war.”

“I don’t care to be ‘protected.’” Severus’ heart pounded in his ears. “Don’t protect me. I’d rather have what the Dark Lord serves up.”

“Severus, you must play your part to the very end. Otherwise all our sacrifices are for nothing.”

“No,” Severus said.

“It --” Albus began.

“God!” Severus screamed. “You’re not going to say it wouldn’t be my first!”

“No, love, I wasn’t going to say that.”

“You can’t ask it!” He strode to the door, thrust himself into the hall and slammed it behind him. He had to get away, had to move.

The castle was dark. Only the ghosts were afoot at this time of night, and all the torches dimmed. He made a circuit of the indoors, nearly running, then to the Astronomy Tower. Climbing, he beat the stones of the stairs with his feet. He felt as if he would burst.

A breeze bathed the top of the tower. The trapped feeling eased. He breathed deeply and the fresh air cooled his rage. When he could think --

The Hogwarts grounds were quiet and dark. The white swan was absent, the black silhouetted by the moon’s reflection, resting in the sedge. As he watched, it stirred and detached itself, paddling away from the shore. Don’t, Severus wanted to shout. Don’t do that.

In the middle of the lake, the black swan stopped, treading firmly with strong invisible legs.

It happened silently, instantly. The surface roiled. A gleaming loop of tentacle rose and the swan went under. For a moment the regular pattern of waves trembled, then the lake was still again.

That was it, then. Really, all that fury, all that spitting and striking out, were just impotent flailing as fate pushed one toward one’s destiny.

When he returned, Albus was sitting in the same place, staring into the dark fireplace. Severus stood quietly in the door. He had never seen such grief on his lover’s face and it comforted him. He crept in and took his place against Albus’ knees and together like that they waited for the dawn.


End file.
